This First Person article is the experience of Andrea Johnson, who lives near Nipawin, Sask. For more information about CBC’s First Person stories, please see the FAQ.
For more than 20 years, Vancouver Island was our paradise home with its mountain views, towering trees and the shimmering Pacific Ocean at our doorstep.
When we moved from Halifax to Langford, B.C., in 2000, it was the realization of a long-held dream. We cherished raising our two children there and building an idyllic life with thriving careers. But as our children grew up and left home, a subtle shift occurred. The vibrant hustle that once energized us now felt like unending noise and the island’s beauty became tinged with restlessness.
Each week blurred into the next, weekends dissolving into a haze of day drinking and true crime marathons to fend off the dread of Monday mornings. The work that once filled me with purpose and a sense of belonging now left me drained and feeling worthless.
After years of living the dream, our zest for island life had faded.
When my husband learned he would retire on a medical category from the Canadian Armed Forces, our relief was palpable. Suddenly, the world seemed full of possibilities. The idea of leaving the island, once unthinkable, became a tantalizing prospect. We began to dream again, contemplating a life that was radically different, especially as we were leaving our children behind in B.C. just as we were about to become grandparents.
So, in a move that left everyone stunned, we decided to leave it all behind and make a new home in rural Saskatchewan.
In 2022, we had bought an acreage near Nipawin, Sask. (about 280 kilometres northeast of Saskatoon) as it was a piece of my great-grandparents’ homestead. Initially, it was a whimsical purchase, fuelled by nostalgia and affordability, with no immediate plans to do anything with it.
But now, the idea of a simpler, more sustainable life took hold. We imagined vast open skies, fields stretching into the horizon and the quiet rhythm of rural living.
With newfound excitement, we dove into planning. We envisioned growing our own food, living off the grid and reconnecting with nature. Our days became filled with sketches and research, our evenings with hopeful conversations about the future that drew us closer together as a couple. The dream grew clearer with each passing day, and with it, our resolve.
When we shared our plans, the people in our lives were more than just baffled — they were horrified. To them, leaving Vancouver Island was like walking away from the ultimate dream.
They warned us that if we left, we’d never be able to afford to come back, as if we were discarding something irreplaceable. But no matter how much they tried to dissuade us, we knew we needed something that couldn’t be found in the endless cycle of our island life.
It was bittersweet leaving behind a life we had built together, but we were eager for the new adventures that awaited us. This June, we celebrated our 26th wedding anniversary by moving onto our acreage.
Our days now begin without an alarm, waking naturally to the soft glow of sunrise. With coffee in hand, we step outside to watch the sun cast its first light across the fields. We embrace the freedom to plan our days according to the whims of Mother Nature, shifting between building projects, gathering supplies in town, and channeling our inner Gord Downie while mowing the yard on our John Deere.
Each day unfolds at its own pace, allowing us to savour each moment and find joy in the simple flow of life. In the evenings, we settle on the porch, watching the sun dip below the horizon as the sky bursts with vibrant colours. On lucky nights, a lightning storm flickers in the distance or an elk herd grazes peacefully across the fields. It’s become our routine, a simple way to reconnect with ourselves and each other, united by the challenges and joys of our new life.
Moving to rural Saskatchewan, I may have given up easy access to Starbucks and swapped my high heels for rubber boots, but I found something far more meaningful: a place free from the distractions of the outside world, where my husband and I could truly reconnect. My great-grandparents made this land their home more than a century ago. Now, we’re making it a home for ourselves and for our children, grandchildren and generations to come.
When our kids moved out, I expected life to continue with the same routines, just with less carpooling and more money in our pockets. Instead, we discovered the freedom to try something completely different. What began as a search for purpose and adventure evolved into a chance to reinvent ourselves.
This new chapter isn’t just an extension of our past; it’s a fresh start, full of possibility and excitement.
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